Page 94 of Psycho Pack

Blank. Fucking blank.

I grind my teeth, anger flaring hot in my chest. What kind of leader am I if I don't even know the most basic facts about one of my own men?

Sure, we all have our secrets.

It's part of the job.

But this... this feels different.

Bigger. Dangerous.

Where did he train?

What made him leave the medical field for black ops?

I'm trying in vain to piece together the fragments I do know, but he might as well be a stranger to me.

I glance at the others, wondering if they're having the same realization. Whiskey's brow is furrowed, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by irritated suspicion. Wraith... well, Wraith is as unreadable as ever. But his strong muscles are tense, a dark wariness in his eyes even as he keeps his head down.

They're all on edge.

And it's my fault.

I should have seen this coming. Should have pushed harder for answers long ago. But I let myself get comfortable. Let myself believe that our shared missions, our brotherhood forged in blood and fire, was enough.

Stupid.

So fucking stupid.

A memory surfaces, hazy and half-formed. Years ago, after a particularly brutal mission. We were drunk on cheap vodka and victory, sprawled around a campfire in some godforsaken forest. Plague had been quieter than usual, staring into the flames with haunted eyes.

Whiskey had asked him then. Point blank. "Where'd you come from, Doc? What made you join this shitshow?"

He'd looked at Whiskey for a long moment, those pale blue eyes unreadable in the flickering light. Then he'd smiled. Not his usual cold smirk, but something sadder. More genuine.

"Sometimes," he'd said softly, "the only way to atone for your sins is to commit greater ones."

Whiskey had cracked up and made some crass remark I don't remember that had kicked off a whole new fight, and I'd brushed it off then, too drunk to catch the weight behind his words.

But now...

Now, I wonder what sins he was trying to atone for.

And what greater ones he's committed since.

The train lurches slightly, rattling the fine china laid out before us. Ivy startles at the sound, pressing closer to Wraith. I have to physically stop myself from going to her. Have to push down the pang of jealousy.

There are bigger concerns right now.

Like the fact that we're hurtling toward a potentially hostile nation on nothing more than Plague's word and endlessly deep mysteries.

With each snow-covered peak we leave behind as we head deeper into the flatter Outer Reaches, I can't shake the feeling we're hurtling toward something far more dangerous than the storm we left behind.

I force myself to take slow, measured breaths, fighting against the urge to pace the length of our luxurious prison.Because that's what this is, isn't it? A gilded cage, drawing us deeper into unknown territory with every turn of the wheels.

I should have pushed harder. Should have demanded answers from Plague the moment he came back from his little "negotiation." But I let my relief at finding a way out of that godforsaken storm—a way to warm our dangerously cold omega—cloud my judgment. Let myself believe I could trust my brotherhood.

Right after one of these bastards just betrayed us all.

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